


Endless

by Laura Shapiro (laurashapiro)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Multi, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-26
Updated: 2000-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/Laura%20Shapiro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surrealist smut, getcher surrealist smut here!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endless

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks always to the Dream King, without whom.

She is in the factory, but here and now it is the Factory, imbued   
with some sort of cosmic importance she cannot fathom. Yet it is   
familiar, even comfortable. Home.

The table is hard beneath her, metal grating against her spine.   
The table where she pounded the Master's bones to dust, and it   
seems to her she can feel the dust under her fingertips, her heels,   
her ass, all the parts of her that touch the rusty surface.   
It should feel cold, but it doesn't.

Angel is there. Has he always been there and she just now   
noticed him? She takes him in fully as he stands, faintly smiling,   
remote, almost vibrating with power. His smile tells her in that   
moment that he is not Angel at all, but Angelus. Still she is not   
afraid, just as the Factory is not uncomfortable and the table is   
not cold.

Spike is there as well, and if she cannot fear Angelus she   
certainly cannot fear him, but seeing Spike flips a switch inside   
her, and suddenly desire is in the room with them. She looks at   
Spike, shirt open, dim light glancing off the planes of his face   
and his golden-white throat, and she wants. An ache forms in   
her sex; she can feel herself fleshy, swollen, and knows she is   
wetter than she has ever been. She can almost see his nostrils   
flare, smelling her.

So aware of her body, she looks down, and though she has been   
naked she is now wearing several layers of filmy white, high   
waisted, it is for an instant the dress she wore that last night of   
her life, before it turns black, growing long, puffing at the   
sleeves. She twines a lock of dark hair between white, long-  
nailed fingers. Drusilla, whom she is wearing like a prom dress,   
is not there. She is herself.

But when Spike murmurs, "Come to me, love," she crawls   
across the table to him, each slinking movement of her thighs   
forcing a moist throb from her sex. She likes watching him   
watch her crawl. She draws her fingernail across the inside of   
Spike's arm, just above the elbow. A red line forms, and she   
presses her mouth there. His flesh is cool and firm, the blood   
warm and tasting of nothing at all. Red lines open up, small and   
succulent, on Spike's chest and arms, and she puts her tongue to   
many of them. She anticipates a rush of power, or a sensation of   
fullness, hunger fed, but all she feels is burning between her legs.

"Enough," says Angelus, and she pulls away. She and Spike do   
not question the order and the wounds seal themselves as if   
even Spike's skin would not think of rebelling.

Angelus remains in the shadows, several feet from them,   
austere, commanding. She is on all fours on the table, Spike's   
nearness bathing her in increasing waves of need. The ache   
intensifies, as though she knows Angelus is going to say

"Take him down your throat until you gag, and then go past it."

Which seems perfectly reasonable, as Spike's cock is suddenly   
*there*, pale and purplish and gently curving. Cool and heavy   
on her tongue, and then back and back seemingly beyond her   
tongue and she didn't know that she could do this. Tears form   
briefly as she gags, but Spike groans so beautifully, and anyway   
she must do what Angelus commands.

Relaxing her throat, she takes him deeper, past the protesting   
muscles, and there is pain but it's meaningless. She can look up   
and see Spike leaning back, long throat bared, gaping in pleasure.   
He is loud and encouraging and the answering ache inside her   
grows and grows. She must be dripping on the table. Spike's cock   
now seems huge, much much too large, and so hard that it   
seems impervious, but she knows he can feel her.

She sucks him for a long time, until his cock is warm, or perhaps   
it's her mouth that has gone cold. She is aware always of   
Angelus standing nearby, arms folded now, appraising. On and   
on, the hard enormity in her throat, her lips going numb, the   
ache, the ache.

The doorbell rings and suddenly she is reclining on the table,   
which is now polished and gleaming. Her makeup is perfect, her   
dress unmussed. Spike, composed and tidy, ushers in two   
delivery boys. She almost laughs at the cliché, but laughter   
would end this, or change it, and she wants to stay.

Stay here with these delivery boys, who are not boys but men,   
men with broad shoulders and thick bodies made of hard work.   
Their dark curls are long and unruly, their skins tan, their bellies   
firm. Dressed in grey coveralls, they are unlike her, unlike   
anyone she knows. She is more like Angelus and Spike than she   
is like them. They are ordinary men, and in realizing it she   
understands what she is not, and knows what she is.

There is a flash-forward of sorts, montage of gibbered words like   
a CD on skip, and she knows time has passed by this and by the   
fact that her legs are up on the shoulders of one of the delivery   
men, whose face is pressed against her pussy and shaking side to   
side like a pit bull with its jaws clamped down on a favorite toy.   
She is aware of nothing so precise as the delicate sensation of a   
tongue on her clit, but only the pleasure spreading through her,   
purely sexual beyond any specificity of touch. She is going to   
come, she is coming, she comes, and it is brightspark madness   
and still the ache, unquenched, perhaps unquenchable, which   
she now recognizes concretely as pain.

Angelus must have given yet another order (she knows that he   
had given the order for what has come before, just as she knows   
there was conversation and seduction that has landed them   
here), for now the man is fucking her, and now the concreteness   
of the sensation suffuses her. Every millimeter of his cock   
sliding into her is richly, deeply felt -- the heat, such wonderful   
heat and hardness of him, slickness of herself, slight friction and   
a pushing and stretching and glory, glory...and now she knows   
that the ache that is pain is also emptiness. And this man whom   
she does not know is filling it, filling her, and it will never, ever   
be enough.

Her hunger is beyond everything and she is on her back again,   
grinding her hips against him as he thrusts, and every thrust   
soothes and irritates in equal measure. And even as this hunger   
is appeased and grows in endless circles, she feels Angelus and   
Spike still there, and there is something she is supposed to be   
doing. The man's beautiful naked shoulder and throat are   
pressed against her mouth, he is golden and sweating and his   
flesh is hot and fragrant, and she knows what it is she is   
supposed to do and she even almost tries, but her teeth have   
become dull blunt useless things, and all she can do is make the   
curve of his sweat-slick shoulder more slippery with her spit,   
her futile gnawing, and it will never, ever be enough.

And when she wakes, still she aches.

 

END

 

"There is nothing more boring than listening to someone else's   
dream."


End file.
